


Sleeves

by bison_daycare



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: All the paladins (and allura) have a cameo, Alternate Universe - Tattoo Parlor, Falling In Love, Female Pronouns for Pidge | Katie Holt, Keith (Voltron) is Bad at Feelings, Keith is cute and Shiro is super smitten, M/M, Shay is the resident piercing specialist™, Tattoo Artist!Keith, The mystery of Hunk's single tattoo will never be solved, This ended up being fluffier than I expected
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-19
Updated: 2017-05-19
Packaged: 2018-11-02 16:46:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10948611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bison_daycare/pseuds/bison_daycare
Summary: In which Keith is a mess, and Shiro is just trying to forget.Or, Keith is a tattoo artist and Shiro is the attractive new client, hoping to cover up some scars from the past.





	Sleeves

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve been working on this on and off for the better part of six months, and finally, had the motivation to finish it. It’s a sin, really, that I haven’t written for my boys yet. I adore these two almost as much as they adore each other. 
> 
> I was planning on making this smutty, but it didn't quite work. Odds are I'll add a few companion pieces to Sleevesverse, including a bundle or two of sin.
> 
> Anyways, here's 10k+ of Sheithy goodness!

“Oh my _god!_ I love it!”

Keith’s lips quirk upwards, though it’s too sharp to be considered warm and just short enough to be interpreted as patronizing. Fortunately, his client doesn’t seem to notice, spending too much time admiring the dark lines that now overlay the side of her foot. For a girl who spent the better part of an hour crying from the pain and blaming _Keith_ for the needle’s intensity, the finished product sure changed her tune.

People are so damn fickle.

Her friend, who’s spent the time alternating between texting and droning _on_ about her boyfriend problems - while simultaneously sending Keith suggestive looks to which he promptly ignored - squeals, rushing over to get a closer look.

“Oh my _god!_ You’re such a badass, Rae!”

“I know, right?! It’s perfect! Just _wait_ ‘til I show everyone!”

Keith wants to snort at that, but refrains, if only just. It’s funny - she's been helicoptering him the entire time, so he has been anticipating a certain level of buyer’s remorse. The permanent kind.

He shakes it off and goes about cleaning up his station, doing everything in his power to keep from rolling his eyes as the banshees continue their shrieking. He’s almost amazed at the octaves they achieve through their excitement.

He makes eye contact with the shop’s piercing specialist, a sturdy woman named Shay, who shoots him a wry sort of grin. The friend had just come in last week to get a nose piercing, one that seemed to be conspicuously missing upon her return.

He’s grateful his work is appreciated, he honestly is, but some clients manage to push his nearly non-existent patience to the end of its line. He’s just glad the piece was easy to construct because really, he isn’t sure how much more time he would be able to tolerate those two. He silently hopes they don’t become regulars. If he sees their names in the bookings, he’ll just try and shove them off to one of his coworkers.

It’s _miles_ easier to tolerate customers when he’s excited about the ink. When he has to really push his talents to the edge, striving to paint something that will satisfy both the client and his own sense of artistry. He likes when he gets to play, toying with the different concepts presented and sketching until he can come up with something amazing.

Honestly, a guy can only tattoo so many infinity signs before he begins to lose creative ambition.

He goes over basic care instructions, how often to clean it, how to avoid contamination, the like, taking in her distracted glances. Idly, he wonders how long it will take before it gets infected. He just hopes she doesn’t come storming in here blaming _him_ for the inevitable inflammation. That’s happened before, and though the individual’s lack of responsibility is always at fault, they like to place blame on the perfectly sterile organization.

He interrupts them as they start taking pictures, trying to angle her foot as to showcase both her excitement and her first tattoo. “You paid up front, I’m guessing?”

The girl whips her head around, as if surprised to see him still standing there. Because this _totally_ isn’t his station or anything. “What? Oh, yeah, I did.”

He nods, satisfied, “Cool. Then you’re good to go.”

 _Leave,_ his mind supplies, and it takes everything in him to bite his tongue. It’s almost closing and he doesn’t want to have to go through the trouble of kicking them out later.

Suffice to say customer service still isn’t his forte. He thinks back to when he first started here, answering the phone and scheduling appointments, silently fuming until he eventually snaps at the overbearing customers. He alone has more complaints than the entire store and it’s, albeit limited, staff combined. Sometimes, he wonders why they’ve let him stick around for so long.

He’s improved on that front, at least. If only marginally.

She hands him a pile of bills, thanking him distractedly for his help, not even looking as he flicks two fingers away from his brow so as to say, _y_ _ou got it._

He stuffs the tip in his wallet, sighing audibly with relief as the bell on the door signifies the duo’s exit.  Shay chuckles from her side of the shop, having just finished up a bellybutton piercing. “They were something else, weren’t they?”

This time he _does_ roll his eyes.

* * *

 

It’s a slow day, the kind that leaves Keith sprawled across the front desk, sketching absentmindedly in his book with little else to entertain himself. He only had two walk-ins that morning, both quick, mindless sessions. But it’s a Wednesday - most people are either at work or in class, barring in the mind the few, infrequent exceptions.

He’s been thinking of getting something behind his ear, one of the few totally bare canvases left on his person, but none of the designs he’s come up with have been doing it for him. Hell, he even got bored enough to draw a _giant robot lion._ Nothing says ‘badass’ like an oversized, animatronic cat. Eventually, he concedes defeat, choosing instead to sketch whatever comes to mind. Maybe he’ll stumble upon something cool.

He keeps going with the tech theme. He’s toyed some with 3D tattoos, and thinking about his past works gets him going. It’s like the floodgate has officially been opened, and though he still has no idea what he wants to put on his neck, he’s filled almost two entire pages of his book with bionic masterpieces.

He’s the only one in the store right now, the usual secretary having gone on an early lunch break. And extended, by the looks of it. Keith doesn’t mind the solitude, really. If anything, it’s a relief. He likes the quiet.

Keith sighs, running a gloved hand through his loose hair, staring out the window. The leaves have started to change, he notes, and he feels a bubble of satisfaction. He’s always liked the fall; always felt at peace as the blistering summer slowly melts into the crisp air of autumn. The leaves changing, painting the world in hues of rust and reds. It’s peaceful, even if he _does_ get cold easily.

He jumps when he hears the bell sound, a sudden gust of air rustling his black locks, caught completely unawares. He can’t help an embarrassed grimace when he hears soft laughter, jerking his head over to where the culprit stands innocently in the lobby.

“Sorry,” he smiles, raising a placating hand, “I didn’t mean to catch you off guard. You good?”

“Yeah, fine,” Keith responds, doing his best to keep the scowl off his face. He _hates_ surprises.  But, and something Keith has always struggled to uphold, glaring at a customer is the type of behavior that his boss _oh so gently_ tries to discourage.

The man’s tall, carrying himself with the sort of breezy confidence that takes years to perfect. And though the lines between his brow are deep his smile is easy, likable. He’s the type of guy Keith has always envied, _hell,_ always _hated_ in school. The golden boy, he was sure, if his mellow sort of kindness was any indicator. The one teachers cherished and the one peers clamored to befriend.

A maroon beanie covers up most of his hair in the back, but Keith can tell it’s naturally a similar shade of black to his own, except this guy’s cut is longer in the front, and white. The bright locks fall into gray eyes that are presently dancing with mirth. There’s a scar across his nose, but oddly, Keith finds it doesn’t detract from his looks. If anything, it draws attention to the elegant sharpness of his features, adding a certain edge to his overall boy-next-door vibe. It’s not hard to imagine the entourage falling all over themselves to catch his notice.

Keith rises to his full height, which, he notes bitterly, is still a solid head shorter than this guy. “Did you need something?”

It comes out harsh, harsher than he intends, but to his credit, the guy doesn’t even flinch. He brings a hand up to rub at his neck, sheepish as he inquires, “Well, I was wondering if you could tattoo over scar tissue? I’ve looked up some stuff online, but I wanted to check in person before I commit to anything.”

Keith scans the mark across his nose, tilting his head marginally to the side. “Are you talking cosmetic tats? ‘Cause that’s not really our thing. Another shop may be your best bet. I can recommend-”

“No,” his smile turns sardonic, and he lets some of his bangs fall further into his eyes, no doubt cataloging where Keith’s gaze had settled. “I was thinking of getting a sleeve, but…”

He trails off, and after a moment’s deliberation shrugs off his denim jacket so he’s in just a plain white v-neck. Keith’s gaze traces over the muscled contours of his arms, taking in the numerous scars decorating them. There’s a plethora of cross-hatched wounds, but the worst is probably the ring of tissue surrounding his right bicep. The left arm is in far better shape, that’s for sure, but it’s certainly not clean.

“Pretty bad, huh?” the guy says, bitterness leaking into his tone.

Suddenly, Keith almost feels guilty for shoving him into that silly little category earlier, and in his gut, he _knows_ that each of those lines tells a painful story. People don’t look like that if they haven’t seen some shit.

“Nah,” he casually counters, turning around to grab the stack of binders behind him. “I’ve seen worse.”

Keith’s watching out of the corner of his eye as the stranger throws his jacket back on. He notes the smile on the man’s face, as if he’s fighting to keep it down, and failing miserably.

Keith tosses plethora of portfolios onto the counter with a noticeable _thump_ , barely processing the sound that rings out over the soft music in the background.

The stranger fixes his collar and pushes his hat forward, rustling his hair with the motion. “I haven’t settled on anything yet. I was hoping I could look through some of the work?” he asks, gesturing towards the books Keith has already spread out.

Keith nods, watching as he flicks through the other main artist’s portfolio. Rolo’s good, but his work is all sharp lines and rough textures, reminiscent of the man himself. Something tells Keith that is not what this guy’s going for.

As it turns out, his intuition holds true. The stranger lets out an appreciative ‘hmm’, before setting down the binder and reaching for the next. It’s one of their newer people - Keith hasn’t had much of a chance to see her in action, but apparently, she’s got a good eye. Her work is fanciful, almost cartoonesque, and she has a penchant for pastels. She’s done a few watercolor pieces that kick ass. Keith keeps meaning to creep on one of her sessions, he just hasn’t gotten around to it quite yet.

Knowing this may take a while, Keith resumes his previous position of standing idly next to the counter’s window, tapping his pen against the oak and flipping back to the page he had been doodling on. Absentmindedly, he shades in the forearm, silently pleased with the way it’s turned out. The sleeve is designed to look like a futuristic cyborg implant, covering a majority of the arm in carefully shaded pieces of ‘metal’.

“Can I see that?”

Keith whips his head up, light spinning from the abrupt motion. Like when he stands up too quickly and white stars start dancing around the room. The guy is staring intently at his sketchbook, eyes dancing as he studies the page.

Feeling oddly self-conscious, Keith eyes him warily, before reluctantly handing over his personal stash of drawings. He just hopes he doesn’t see the robot lion. That’s a surefire way to lose a potential client if he’s ever heard one.

The man grins thankfully as he grabs for it, eyes meeting Keith’s as he pulls it towards himself.

“I didn’t realize you were one of the tattoo artists. This is incredible,” he grins boyishly, skimming over the page with open intrigue. “What other pieces have you done?”

Keith can’t suppress the swell of pride at the praise. He’s almost smirking, but it’s more natural, a tentative half-smile as he gestures to his personal portfolio. His name is scrawled in the corner of the red vinyl, a last-minute addition when he was first starting out. He wasn’t anything impressive at the time, despite possessing _some_ measure of innate ability, but the thought of someone looking at what he’s put his heart and soul into without the proper commendation bothered him.

The man’s voice pulls him from his thoughts, and he’s once again looking at him with that disconcerting grin. “Keith, huh?” he questions, extending his hand, “I’m Shiro.”

Keith quickly files that away. He’s generally awful with names, but something tells him this one will stick.

“Nice to meet you,” he grumbles, avoiding eye contact but reaching out to return the handshake. He distractedly notes that way Shiro’s rough hand engulfs his own, long fingers curling around his own.

Shiro flips through Keith’s profile, lips quirked upwards as he takes in some of his past adventures. An elaborate Calavera that ran from hip to thigh, a phoenix spreading its wings across a full back, a forearm designed to look like a stained glass window - some of his more challenging pieces, but also some of the most rewarding. It’s the type of challenge he relishes, and the sort that doesn’t come around very often.

He's proud of his work. He's _good_ at his work. And he's gone through a hell of a lot to get to this point.

Shiro’s dark gray eyes flit across the pages, pausing at whatever catches his interest. And though he is noticeably impressed, something Keith tries not to let get to his head, he couldn't help but notice every few moments his gaze would hover on the open book.

Shiro finishes his venture through Keith’s work, drumming his fingers on the countertop and biting the inside of his cheek, his free hand gesturing towards the sketch. “Could you do this?”

Violet eyes gleam. “Easily.”

Shiro beams, excitement dancing in his eyes, his scar appearing lighter as his expression brightens.  

 _“Awesome._ Let’s talk specifics.”

* * *

 

They agree to meet up in a few days, giving Keith plenty of time to edit the sleeve to the few specifications Shiro actually had in regards to the tattoo. He was shockingly good-natured about the whole ordeal, willing to leave most of it up to Keith. It was a far cry from his usual brand of customers. Not that he can blame them. Once the ink touches the canvas, it’s there to stay.

Keith hasn’t taken on such an extensive project in a while. Given the amount of detail going into the piece, and the fact that Shiro’s in damn good shape, it could take anywhere from forty to fifty hours, total. They talk for a little while, covering the basics- how precisely he wants it to look, how far up his arm he wants it to go, etcetera.

They settle on the top of the shoulder, where it would then extend downward to the dorsal side of his hand. Keith doesn’t get a chance to ask Shiro what his day job is, but apparently, he isn’t particularly concerned about visibility. Or expenses, for that matter. This monster won’t be cheap.

Keith’s refining the last of it - just a few minor, nitpicky things - when a head peaks around the wall of his allotted area.

“Keith, your 9 o’clock is here,” the burly receptionist calls, an amiable smile on his wide face.

Keith looks up from his drafting table, nodding minutely as he tears his eyes away from the drawing. “Thanks, Hunk.”

The guy’s only been there a few months, but Keith is pretty fond of him. Despite his penchant for sneaking off during the lunch hours, he’s dedicated, especially for a part-timer. Most of the guys at the desk are only there for some pocket change, caring little for the group or their reputation, which makes things _substantially_ more difficult on his end.

Hunk has one tattoo that he vehemently refuses to show anyone - it's the cause of much speculation amongst the workers, who have all taken bets as to what and _where_ it is - and he seems to have little interest in getting another one. But he’s a good friend of Shay’s and was in need of a job, so the manager took him on.

Hunk’s mentioned going to culinary school, and _damn_ if that guy can't make a four-course meal out of practically nothing. Keith’s tried some of the stuff he's brought in after class and it's out of this world.

Then again, for a guy living off of cold pizza and second-rate burgers, his opinion may be a little skewed.

Keith hears footsteps, surprisingly light considering how tall Shiro is. If he hadn’t been listening, he may have missed them. The man gives him an easy smile, which Keith tentatively returns. Feeling disarmingly self-conscious, he clears his throat, jerking his head towards the series of papers unfurled before him. “Here, come check this out.”

It’s evolved since he’s last seen it, a thorough design of what was originally just a tentative idea. Most of the sleeve is gray, shaded to look like the light is reflecting off the assorted plates, a few cylindric pipes connected the pieces over a black surface. His shoulder, and a section just below his ‘elbow plating’, is made to look like it’s exposing the inner workings of the cybernetic, gears turning and circuitry visible.

Shiro stands behind him, a hand resting on the back of the rolling chair where Keith is still settled, peeking over the slighter man’s shoulder to get a good look at the work he’s done. His free hand reaches to grasp one of the drawings, featuring the arm at a few different positions and angles.

Shiro takes his time studying it, analyzing all the details and visualizing what they would look like on his body. It’s enough for Keith to get anxious, drumming his fingers against the table and biting the inside of his cheek. It’s stupid, he silently reprimands, but he’s really pumped about this project.

“So,” he prompts, “what do you think?”

Shiro finally looks up from the work, and to his relief, Keith can see the smile form. “I love it. When can we start?”

Keith grins back, relieved to see the creation is a success. He’d had Shay and Hunk both look at it earlier, and though they liked it, he can never be certain on how it’ll be received.

They make an appointment for exactly two weeks later.

* * *

“You ready?”

Shiro’s laying in the red vinyl chair, patiently waiting as Keith gets the machine prepped. They’d already outlined the work, transferring the sketch from the paper and onto his arm. It looks good, in his opinion, and Shiro seems to be getting excited to start the process.

Keith holds up the needle, throwing cheekily over his shoulder, “Not too late to change your mind, you know.”

Shiro raises an eyebrow, a lighthearted gleam in gray eyes. “I like a challenge.”

Keith laughs, light and disconcertingly sincere, and settles into the stool he pulled up earlier. “And a challenge this will be.”

Try as he might, Keith couldn’t help his eyes from straying towards the array of scars decorating the appendage. He marvels at how many there are, and though a part of him is curious enough to inquire, the part that has been conditioned to _stay in his own lane and don’t ask questions_ puts the lesser in a headlock. It’s none of his business - he’s just here for the ink.

Still, unable to help himself, Keith asks with flitting eyes, “Hey, you sure you’ll be alright?”

He had warned Shiro before - though it was more than possible to cover scars, it would hurt like a bitch. The tissue is sensitive, and Keith had seen many people overwhelmed by the pain. He was more than prepared to take however many breaks were necessary in order for this to be as smooth as possible.

To his surprise, Shiro just smiles at him, full of assurance and easy enough that Keith can’t help but go along with it. “I can handle a little pain. I’ll be fine, but the concern is appreciated.”

Nodding, Keith bites the inside of his cheek.

“Then here we go.”

The buzzing of the machine fills the room and he gently gets to work on the outline.

* * *

Keith desperately needs a haircut.

He’s always liked it on the longer side, despite the many ‘mullet’ jokes he gets thrown his way. He looks bizarre, in his opinion, when the ends aren’t brushing at least against his clavicle. But this is getting out of hand. The bangs that normally fall into his face have gotten to the point that it tickles his nose when he leans over, and stray strands keep seeming to find a way into his eyes.

He looks up from his work, glancing quickly at Shiro who’s eyeing the tv with disdain.

“How do people watch this stuff?” Shiro asks, breaking the peaceful silence they’d built up over the past forty minutes.

Keith smirks, teasingly, glancing over at the screen during his brief reprieve of work. “What? You mean reality television isn’t your thing?”

“I’m not entirely sure what reality it’s supposed to resemble, but no, not really,” Shiro responds dryly. Taking advantage of the break, he rolls his shoulder, stretching out the limb that has remained stationary for far too long.

Keith stands to get the two water bottles in the mini fridge he shoved in the corner, handing one silently to his client. Shiro nods his thanks, still staring skeptically at the television. “Well, sorry. I’d change it but if I get too close Shay’s going to have my head. Literally.”

“I still think you’d look good with a nose ring,” she calls, peaking out from behind her station to flash him a grin worthy of the Cheshire Cat.

Keith glares, lacking any true malice. “I'm not letting you anywhere _near_ my face with a needle.”

“Are you saying you don't trust me?”

_“Yes.”_

Shiro laughs next to him, a pleasantly bright sound, unashamedly amused by their practiced banter. Apparently, they’re a touch more interesting than whatever bullshit TLC is trying to push as entertainment nowadays.

Hunk, having just finished up with a customer, wastes no time jumping in on the playful ribbing. “Come on, Keith. It wouldn’t be the first piercing she’s given you. I think an eyebrow stud could be fun.”

“Then why don’t _you_ get one?” Keith snaps, rolling his eyes while fighting a smile.

“Easy. I don’t have your delicate bone structure,” Hunk chuckles before the bells rings, signifying a new patron.

Keith gives another eye roll for good measure, knowing it wouldn’t do any good. He could really go for a smoke right now.

Grabbing his pack, he turns to Shiro, “You mind? I won’t be long.”

“You know that’s bad for you, right?” At Keith’s deadpanned stare, the taller man jumps to his feet, smiling lopsidedly. “Fine, fine. I get it. Mind if I tag along? I could use some air.”

“Do what you want,” Keith shrugs, not used to having company on his smoke breaks, but also, not exactly upset by this development. In the few appointments they’ve had, Shiro’s proven himself to be good company. He’s earnest to a fault but quick, his breezy kindness meshing well with his dry wit.

Keith tells himself that’s all there is to it. That Shiro’s grin doesn’t make his heart pound and his eyes aren’t the most interesting shade of gray he’s ever seen.

He leads him out the back door, propping it open with a folded metal chair that’s been reassigned as a doorstop since the leg broke. It opens to an old parking lot that’s been long forgotten, closed off behind the complex where the shop is located. Even the surrounding stores rarely use their access back here, so it’s usually quiet. And while asphalt isn’t the most romantic view, Keith takes it for what it’s worth.

He shoves his pack in the pocket of his red jacket, using the hair tie on his wrist to quickly bind his hair out of his face. He’s not about to risk a fire hazard in the name of style.

He catches Shiro staring out of the corner of his eye, focused and bright. It’s enough to make heat rush to his cheeks, and desperate for _something_ to do, Keith reaches into his pocket to retrieve the cigarettes.

“You look good with your hair up.”

Keith jerks his head so he can look at Shiro straight on, eyes wide and painfully startled by the compliment. His blush deepens, and he can’t decide if he wants to hide behind his hands or punch Shiro in his pretty little face.

He settles on finally lighting one of his cigs, mumbling _thanks_ from behind the cover of smoke. He didn’t expect Shiro would be so… _straightforward._ But, Keith supposed, the guy has been surprising him since they met.

“You know, ears are near your face.”

Keith furrows his brows, because _yes, Shiro,_ ears _are indeed_ close to the face. Until he realizes _exactly_ what he's referring to. The three piercings on each lobe and the bar through his cartilage brought to mind, Keith wonders if he should be honest.

The opportunity for revenge and seeing Shiro just as thrown as he is too sweet a picture, Keith caves.

Raising an eyebrow and grinning wolfishly, he discloses, “Who said she pierced my ears?”

For the rest of the day, Keith laughs hysterically when he remembers just _how wide_ Shiro’s eyes can get and the stammered apologies that followed.

* * *

“Hey, mullet!”

Keith rolls his eyes, recognizing that aggravating tone immediately and anticipating the inevitable headache that usually comes with it.

He went to school with Lance, unfortunately, and though they were never friends they’ve gotten to the point of begrudging tolerance. He hadn’t seen him in years, a blessing in Keith’s opinion, until he showed up one day to visit Hunk. Turns out he had a job across the street at the local diner, where he spends most of his time when he’s not at the nearby university, and on his breaks, he tends to wander over their way.

Lance has had his eye on their newest artist lately. Which, much to Keith’s chargin, translates to him stopping by with increasing frequency. And though it means extra harassment on his end of things, it’s almost worth it to see Lance repeatedly make a total fool of himself in front of the perpetually uninterested Nyma.

His personal favorite was, “If you were a chicken, you’d be imp-egg-able!”

The deadpan, “I’m vegan,” that followed had Keith howling for _hours._

That’s the only reason he hasn’t told Lance about Nyma and Rolo’s thing, really. He’d hate to miss out on a laugh just by being a decent person.

“What do you want, Lance?” he sighs, exasperation already rearing its ugly head.

“Didn’t know you own the place. Anyway, is Nyma here?” he wastes no time, craning his neck to peer around the front desk.

Sighing aloud, Keith resists the urge to put in his headphones and attempt to drown out his most recent irritant. At least while Hunk is out, he has to man the door.

 _“No,_ she doesn’t work on Tuesdays. You’d think you would know this by now, considering you show up _every Tuesday_ asking the same thing.”

Lance pouts, shoving his cheek into his hand, elbow resting against the counter. He drums his fingers carelessly on the wood.

Keith hears his phone buzz from where he’d carelessly tossed it next to the register, and he reaches over to grab it. The words _Takashi Shirogane (1) Message_ illuminate the screen. Unlocking the phone with his thumbprint, he quickly skims the words.

_Sorry, Keith, I got held up in a meeting. I should be there in 20._

He sighs in relief. Shiro was already late, uncharacteristically so for a guy normally so on top of things. Keith had been disappointed to say the least, and he was doing everything in his power to convince himself he was upset to be _losing money_ and not because he would miss out on seeing Shiro.

He didn’t even notice Lance reading over his shoulder until he yells, “You know Shiro?”

Keith jumps, letting out a quiet yelp in surprise. God, _why_ is he always _so damn loud?_

 _“Yes,_ I know Shiro. I’m doing his sleeve,” Keith snaps, rubbing at his ear in a futile attempt to get the ringing to disappear. “Wait, how do you know him?”

“He teaches astronomy at my school. He’s really cool! I had a class with him last semester and it was great. Did you know he served in the air force for a few years?”

“No, I didn’t.” That was news. Despite the friendly, uncomplicated relationship they’ve developed, Shiro had yet to offer up any information on himself. For someone so forthright with his thoughts, he was surprisingly tight-lipped on his personal history.

Thrilled to appear more informed than his self-proclaimed rival, he went on, “Yeah, apparently he did some crazy shit overseas, too. I don’t know all the details, but my buddy Pidge’s family is pretty close with him.”

Keith thinks of the scars decorating his arms, what he’s been working over the past three weeks to cover. Shiro wasn’t lying when he said he could handle pain - though he said they were at least two years old, they should have still been sensitive, but he couldn’t seem to care less. It was impressive, Keith had to admit.

Hunk chose that moment to come back, and any questions Keith wanted to ask were lost.

Lance hung out for the remainder of his break, bantering with the testy artist and chatting with his longtime friend. He leaves reluctantly, expressing how he would _much rather_ hang out with them than go back to the diner.

Just as the door was closing, suspended on a spring so it doesn’t slam shut, he catches the tail end of an excited, _“Hey! Shiro!”_

He's dressed more formally than Keith is used to seeing him, a dress shirt tucked into a pair of dark wash jeans and a thin tie pulled loosely around his neck. His hair is wild in his face, messy from the wind that’s been going strong all day.

Suddenly, Keith understands the whole _“sexy professor”_ craze.

“I’m so sorry, Keith, the meeting went over and traffic was a bitch. I can pay you for your time, if-”

Keith waves him off, jumping from the stool he had settled on a while ago, “Nah, don’t worry about it. Shit happens.”

“If you’re sure.”

Keith’s lips quirk upwards, almost involuntarily. Always the charmer. “I am.”

He can see the tension leave Shiro’s frame. _This guy is going to have a heart attack one day if he doesn’t calm the fuck down,_ Keith can’t help thinking.

They go back to his station, and while Keith gets things ready Shiro pulls his tie further down, unbuttoning his top and exposing the dark, sleeveless shirt he had thrown on underneath. Keith can feel his mouth drying out, and bites the inside of his cheek to keep himself anchored.

_Shit. This is bad._

He has to consciously tear his eyes away from Shiro, when the man in questions glances up, a curious look in his eye.

Keith doesn’t even try decoding it, instead, setting on the mindless task at hand.

While he’s working, he mind wanders back to his earlier conversation with Lance. While he doesn’t want to pry, Keith is shocked by the overwhelming need to know _more_. The feeling is harsh and striking and Keith tries not to dwell on what that could mean.

“You were in the air force?”

Shiro raises an eyebrow, a dry smile making an appearance. “Lance likes to talk.”

“Yeah, no shit,” Keith grumbles, focusing on his work but keeping an ear on his client.

Shiro sighs, a loaded sound that Keith isn’t sure he likes.

“Yeah, I served for about two years. It was... Well, let’s just say it’s not something I like to remember.”

Keith gulps, keeping his gaze firmly planted, letting the drone of the tattoo machine make up for their lull in the conversation. He’s working on his bicep, over that tragic ring of tissue, and in his heart, he _knows_ it has something to do with his time overseas.

He keeps his mouth shut, refusing to ask anymore. Whatever happened, whoever _did_ this to him…

He’s not about to pry, but if the time ever comes when Shiro is ready to talk, he’ll listen. He’ll always listen.

* * *

If there’s one thing Keith likes about his job, it’s the stories.

He once had a woman get a watercolor mural on her back, depicting the various pride flags and all that comes along with them. During one of their eight-hour sessions, she told Keith about coming out to her family. Their reactions were volatile, leaving her homeless and alone until she was able to finally secure a job with a local brewery.

He sees the pain is fresh, time not totally healing the hurt, and that _almost_ makes Keith feel grateful he doesn’t have a family to come out _to_.

Another time, a man came in with nothing but teary eyes and a child’s drawing, featuring two stick figures and an assortment of capital and lowercase letters. Later, when he was finishing the muddled lines of the “I LovE You PaPa”,  he watches the man cry, thinking of the child he lost to a disease just weeks prior.

Yeah, he likes the stories. It makes him feel that, despite being an orphaned high school dropout, he can still do something _good_. Something that helps, even just a little bit.

That’s how he feels when, later that night, he’s once again in the store long after closing. When he takes a break to smoke Shiro follows - he _always_ follows - stretching his arm out and admiring the artwork. It’s finally starting to resemble something more than a cluster of lines, the first stage of the shading ultimately completed.

The stars are bright, Keith notes, and he leans up against the building, craning his neck so as to get a good look. He pulls a lighter and his pack of cigs, noting that he'll have to go buy more soon. He's running low.

Shiro mirrors his position on the brick, admiring the view and half-heartedly making his characteristic reminder, “You know that’s terrible for you, right?”

Keith shrugs, as he always does when Shiro tries to parent him. “I’ve made it this far, haven’t I?”

Shiro gives him a wry glance but lets it go, either too tired or just familiar enough with Keith to know it would be a futile endeavor.

That’s one thing Keith has grown to really like about Shiro. Despite genuinely seeming to care for his wellbeing, something Keith hasn’t quite been able to figure out, he doesn't push. He says just enough to make his point - the guy has a knack for taking a few simple words and making them seem like the most life-altering thing that's ever been uttered - but in no way forces his views on the other party.

More than that, he genuinely _listens_. He takes what Keith says and processes it, really taking the time to see where he's coming from. It's nice, feeling validated.

Keith takes a hit, enjoying the bitter feeling against the back of his throat. Maybe it’s the fatigue of these long hours finally catching up to him, maybe it's the way the moon seems to reflect off of Shiro’s face, or something deeper he’s still struggling with, but Keith is talking before he really knows why.

“Y’know, when I was a kid, I wanted to be an astronaut.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Keith sees the way Shiro inclines his head, an encouraging smile curling at his lips.

Keith likes those lips - far more than he’d care to admit.

“Why didn't you?” Shiro inquiries, when he realizes Keith won't volunteer any more information without prompting.

He shrugs, beginning to regret bringing this up. “I grew up in foster care. The system isn't the easiest place to make your dreams come true.”

“Still,” Shiro starts gently, “you could always-”

“I didn't even graduate high school, Shiro,” he sighs, trying to to be angry and just ending up feeling far more exhausted than he was to start with. “I got my GED and got the hell out as fast as I could.”

Shiro nods, waiting with a patience Keith didn't know was possible. But that’s the summary of this man, as he’s spent the past few weeks learning. He’s everything Keith never knew he needed and everything Keith is _terrified_ of reaching for.

“If it’s any consolation, I think you have a pretty good thing going for you,” he says like it’s the easiest thing in the world, shooting an impassioned but honest look out of the corner of his eye and Keith’s heart is in his throat. It’s nothing big but to Keith, it’s _everything_.

Because when he was _nothing_ and he had nothing to do and nowhere to go, he found his fortune amidst a bunch of needles and sketchbooks. He made something of himself, and though many wouldn’t say a tattoo artist in a remote city is much to go by, it’s a path he forged alone when he could have easily given up.

He’s moving before he totally realizes what he’s doing, letting his cigarette fall forgotten as he turns and wraps his arms around Shiro’s midsection, setting his cheek against a firm chest and sighing in contentment.

Then he realizes what he’s doing, and it’s like an alarm rings in the form of an endless stream of expletives. Sure, he’s had to feel up Shiro’s arm more times than he can count, but they’ve never really _touched_ except when Shiro’s in his chair and they certainly haven’t _hugged_ and _holy shit what if he just ruined everything-_

Shiro sets his chin on the top of Keith’s head, arms wrapping comfortably around his smaller frame. And Keith wants to _scream_ because Shiro does _one thing_ and everything feels _okay._

Keith doesn’t scream. Instead, he shuts his eyes, breathing deeply and enjoying the moment for what it’s worth.

* * *

It’s late, far later than they should be there, but neither seems to pay much attention to the absent ticks of the clock in the background.

They’ve made solid progress today, and it should only take another three sessions to finish off the piece. It’s a beast of a project, but Keith knows he’ll be devastated when it’s over. It’s put his ability to the test, pushing his creativity in a delicious way he’s been craving through the haze of dreamcatchers and inspirational quotations.

And, well, there’s _this_ little detail, too.

Shiro’s smiling at him in that soothing way, throwing on his jacket and adjusting his hat, totally oblivious that he’s driving Keith crazy.

“I’m starving,” he laughs, and Keith grunts in what can only be agreement. He’d skipped lunch that day, taking on one of Rolo’s appointments when they realized he’d been double-booked. Fortunately, it had been a simple abstract work, and Shiro only had to wait a few minutes for Keith to wrap things up.

Keith promised him he would make up for lost time tonight, and when Rolo left for the day Keith assured him he’d lock up.

Shiro gestures at the diner across the street, knowing it would be open until the wee hours of the morning. “Wanna grab a bite?”

“Ugh, _yes_ , please,” Keith groans. Shiro’s had to listen to his stomach growl for the better part of three hours, and though he had forced some weird protein bar down Keith’s throat sometime in there the effects had long since worn off.

They make the lengthy trip across the road, and Keith is practically salivating when he is greeted by the delicious smell of deep fried magic. Shiro takes care of seating, responding an affirmative when she asks if the table is for two.

She grabs menus, turning to ask, “Table or booth?”

Shiro looks at him, obviously caring little either way. Keith answers without hesitation, “Booth.”

They’re led to one by the window, a perfect view of the store Keith’s sold his soul to, bathed in the soft hues of the streetlights.

Shiro’s studying his menu, seriously debating on what to order as he flips between two pages. Keith can’t hold in his laugh, taking in the honest way Shiro inspects his choices.

Keith rests his chin on his fist, content to just watch the man across from him for a while. Finally, he takes mercy on the poor bastard, suggesting, “Get the breakfast. Their pancakes are life changing.”

Shiro finally looks up from his menu, a skeptical eyebrow arched. “It’s almost midnight, Keith.”

“I know. Prime time for the most important meal of the day.” He throws his menu at the end of the table, unopened. He orders the same thing every time he comes here.

Their waitress comes over, and to Keith’s satisfaction, Shiro orders the pancakes.

She idly pours coffee into the generic white cups, setting a bowl of creamer packets at the end of the table. “Lance will be pissed if he finds out we were here while he’s off.”

Shiro opens one of the small cylindrical containers, emptying the contents within his cup. “Is he not normally here this late?”

Keith shrugs, picking at a loose strand from a hole in his jeans. “He has early classes. His manager tries to avoid giving him the graveyard shift.”

“That’s nice of him.”

The conversation is easy, and Keith has to admit, it’s a nice change to talk to the guy without the distraction of his _livelihood_ in the way. He can give Shiro his full attention without the relentless drone of a tattoo gun in the background, listening to what he has to say and responding with equal gusto.

It doesn’t take long for their food to arrive, either due to the late hour or the lack of people, but Keith has no complaints. He’s cackling when Shiro takes a bite of his order, face void of any emotion as he confesses, “Okay, I take it all back. These pancakes are _fucking amazing.”_

“I told you,” Keith takes a sip of his coffee, satisfied, before tucking into his own order.

Things are effortless, and when they sign their respective checks - Shiro tried to cover the meal, but Keith wasn’t having it - he’s almost sad to see the night end.

“Where do you live?” Shiro asks as they leave, comfortably full and obviously satisfied.

Keith names the neighborhood, shoving his wallet back in his pocket and getting situated for the trek. “It’s not bad. I know some shortcuts, so I can usually cut the walk down to twenty minutes.”

“No, I’ll take you home. It’s late and you’re tired,” Shiro presses, and though part of him wants to fight it, the idea of spending time with Shiro in his car is too tempting to pass up.

Besides, something tells Keith he wouldn’t win this argument, even if he _did_ want to.

“Fine, Shiro,” Keith concedes. Trying to lighten to mood but shockingly candid, he asks, “Really, how are you not sick of me yet?”

Shiro gets a peculiar look on his face, as if he can hardly comprehend what Keith is asking. As if they haven’t seen each other three days this week already, hours spent together, tucked away in the quaint space of Keith’s home-away-from-home.

“I don’t think I could ever get sick of you.”

It's cold on the way back to the car, enough that Keith can't help shivering against the night air. He knew he should have grabbed a heavier jacket that morning. Shiro must see the way he folds his arms against his chest, fighting to stave off the chill.

He nearly stops dead when Shiro throws an arm over his shoulder, tucking the smaller man into his side. “It’s cold,” he offers lamely, quiet enough that Keith barely picks up on it over the pounding of his heart. Keith can’t tell if it’s from the chilled air or embarrassment, but Shiro’s cheeks are flushed, making the line across his nose even more prominent.

Keith bites his lip, tucking himself further into the embrace and wrapping an arm around Shiro’s waist. At the questioning look, all he offers is an equally lame, “Cold.”

The walk down the street is far too brief for Keith’s taste, and when they get to the parking lot, empty except for one car in the far corner, he know’s he’s about to do something stupid. Like the other day behind the store, his impulse control has never been great. And while Shiro is becoming a stabilizing factor he’s also the reason that Keith’s heart is spiraling out of control.

They’re at the car when Keith turns, grabbing Shiro’s neck and pulling him down to eye level. He can see the curiosity dancing in those steely eyes. Shiro’s lips part, undoubtedly forming a question Keith isn’t ready to answer.

It’s dangerous, how far he’s pulled into this man’s orbit. And though he’s scared shitless by this attachment, a bigger part of him is _desperate_ for a chance.

So he dives. Headfirst. Like he’s always been good at.

The kiss is both nothing like he imagined and far more than he had expected. Where Keith intended it to be a short, fiery burst of expression, Shiro takes what he’s given and runs with it. A large hand settles at his nape, the other catching his face as Keith curls his fingers in Shiro’s jacket.

Unlike the hug from the other day, Shiro doesn’t hesitate to reciprocate, lips working together and fighting for _some_ sort of control. They are both left dazed but needing _more,_ foreheads pressed together and the soft plum of their breaths intertwining in the autumn air.

* * *

It’s not until the next day that Keith realizes he left his wallet in Shiro’s car.

It’s his day off and he’s spent what _should_ have been a relaxing morning tearing his apartment to shreds. He even calls the diner, asking if they’ve seen it, or if he left it on the counter as he paid. He’s _so damn close_ to pulling his hair out when they answer with a negative, groaning aloud and startling the poor hostess.

Keith takes a deep breath, counting to ten and running through the events of the previous night. After dinner, in the parking lot, driving, making out in the car...

Keith’s face burns. Things had gotten heated when they pulled up in front of his complex. What was supposed to be a simple kiss goodbye quickly escalated, nails running through hair and lips straying to every bit of exposed skin. A mark is visible on the side of Keith’s larynx, where Shiro nipped at him playfully, fascinated by the feel of smooth skin beneath his lips.

He’s vindicated by the fact that Shiro has a matching one just above his collarbone. A half hour later, Keith finally managed to pull himself from the car, leaving himself lightheaded and dreamy-eyed as he climbed the steps to his small residence.

He feels like an idiot when, finally, he thinks to text Shiro. It takes seconds to get a response, confirming that, yes, at some point his wallet decided it didn’t want in on the action they both had clearly been enjoying.

He doesn’t get a chance to respond before Shiro texts him again, telling him he can come to the University to pick it up. Grabbing a heavier jacket than the night before, Keith wastes no time heading over to the campus.

Desperate enough to take an Uber and grateful he pays through the app, he forgoes public transportation. Overall, it takes about fifteen minutes to arrive at his destination. Keith checks his phone, rereading Shiro’s instructions on what building he should go to and the appropriate room.

It’s odd walking through the halls, Keith supposes. He’s the same age as most of the kids, and despite what he expected, he doesn’t feel out of place in the least bit.

The lecture room where Shiro’s hidden is surprisingly difficult to find, tucked into a back hallway Keith would have never thought to check had he not stopped some busy-looking girl to ask for directions. Her voice is accented, a light tone that is pleasant to listen to. Her white hair in a bun on the top of her head and her bright blue eyes welcoming, she’s more than happy to point him in the right direction.

He thanks her, and she smiles, bright and friendly.

One of the twin doors is propped open, and unsure of how to announce his presence, Keith hovers in the doorway for an awkward moment. Shiro, thankfully, must sense someone, and looks up from whatever he’s been meticulously studying.

“Keith, hey!” Shiro grins, waving for him to enter.

 _Sexy professor, indeed,_ Keith’s mind helpfully supplies, taking in the view of Shiro standing in front of the decently sized classroom, lecture supplies spread out over the podium. A student sits focused in the corner, copper hair messily concealing her face as she hastily scribbles on a notepad.

The dome-shaped hall is decorated with diagrams of planets and star clusters, and Keith feels like he could spend a few hours just looking them over. Some large posters are suspended on the wall, brightly colored and offering useful references.

He’s nervous, and it’s _stupid_ but his palms are clammy and his smile is smaller than Keith intends. Fortunately, Shiro isn’t deterred, letting a large hand rest on the small of his back and steering him into the room.

“Pidge,” Shiro calls, startling Keith. The young student finally looks up, pushing large, circular glasses up the bridge of her nose. She eyes the hand on Keith’s back, a knowing smile curling on her face. He’s tempted to pull away from the touch, but something tells him that would just entertain her further.

Keith briefly remembers Lance mentioning something about a buddy named Pidge. Considering the current demand for the name, he thinks it’s safe to assume they are one in the same.

“I’ll be back. I just have to give Keith something.”

She shrugs, eyes glistening behind round frames, “Don’t let me hold you back. Take all the time you need.”

The innuendo is apparent, and Shiro snaps, _“Pidge.”_

Her laugh echoes in the room, and Shiro offers Keith an apologetic grin. The familiarity is apparent, a well-rehearsed game they've clearly played often. “If you finish up early, just go ahead and put your test up front.”

“You got it.”

Shiro steers him to a door on the opposite side of the door, carefully concealed in an alcove next to the whiteboard. It gives the illusion of privacy, at least.

“She looks young to be in college,” Keith observes when they are concealed in Shiro’s office. He shuts the door, leaning down to give Keith a quick peck as if it’s as natural as breathing.

“She skipped a few grades. Her father is a teacher here, and her brother’s working on his grad work. They’re all brilliant and way too good for this dump.”

Keith is noticeably impressed. “Damn. How do they keep them here?”

Shiro digs in one of his desk drawers. It’s messy, the small room packed tightly with the mahogany desk, a cluster of bookshelves packed to the brim, and a small, worn down loveseat. Ungraded papers and binders full of materials are everywhere, and Keith guiltily wonders if maybe his tattoo is taking up more time than Shiro has to give.

Grabbing the black leather, a triumphant smile on his face, he tosses it to the artist. “Sentimentality. They’re smart, but more than that, they’re good people. Family is important to them.”

Keith goes along with it, not totally getting it, but taking it for what it’s worth.

“Sorry to drag you all the way out here,” Shiro rubs the back of his neck, leaning back on the edge of his desk. “I was going to drop it off when I got off work, but I forgot I have to cover a class later.”

Keith sits on the couch, hoping he’s not overstaying his welcome. “No problem. I have nothing going on today. Besides,” he stops abruptly, knowing what he wants to say but not sure if he _should_ elaborate.

Shiro tilts his head to the side, offering an encouraging, “Besides…?”

“Besides,” he takes a deep, stabilizing breath, “it gave me an excuse to see you.”

Shiro’s face was redder than Keith’s jacket and makes every bit of the awkward confession completely worth it.

* * *

He doesn’t know how it got to this point, but one minute he’s cleaning up his station and the next Shiro has him pressed against the wall, lips attacking with frenzied eagerness and _delicious_ desperation.

Okay, _maybe_ Keith had teased too much today. He put his hair in a ponytail early on, a knowing look in his eyes when Shiro’s gaze traces the curve of his neck. He’s been a little too handsy while working, letting his fingers rest on his well-formed abdomen and leaning over the man to grab something on the adjacent tabletop, skin touching with abandon. But the way Shiro would look at him when they were alone made a heat spread in his stomach and his mouth feel unusually dry.

And honestly, if _this_ is the result, Keith should _really_ tease him more often.

They have one more appointment after this, finalizing the work and it’s been weighing on him. He’s way past lying to himself - he’s tried that enough in the past two months without much success - and he knows just how scared _shitless_ he is at the idea of losing Shiro.

A hand makes it’s way under his shirt, demanding his attention and trailing over the abundant, dark lines painting his torso. Keith shudders, fingers running through the long fringe that falls enticingly over Shiro’s face.

The hand moves downward, caressing, but stops when it reaches a curiosity. Shiro pulls away, just enough to stare at the boy in his arms, eyes dark and lips amused.

“Bellybutton ring?”

Keith smirks, unable to help himself as he recalls one of their earlier appointments. Something tells him Shiro has spent a decent amount of time pondering that mystery. “I told you - Shay didn’t pierce my ears.”

Eyes are rolled, and he mumbles an exasperated _brat_ against Keith’s lips.

Keith hums, raising up on his toes so he can distractedly kiss along Shiro’s handsome jawline. He lets out a shaky sigh, hands settling on sharp hips as his nose trails affectionately down Keith’s temple.

“Keith,” Shiro manages, and there is something in the tone that makes Keith freeze his ministrations, the heavy feeling in his chest returning with a vengeance.

It isn’t until he says those three, dreaded words that the panic _fully_ settles in.

“We need to talk.”

Keith gulps, apprehension wrapping its claws around his neck. It’s a desperate move, but Keith moves to kiss him again, voice breathy as he suggests, “Why talk when we can do this instead?”

He can see gray eyes trace their way to his lips, which he bites, hoping to hell he appears enticing enough to distract Shiro.

He thinks it’s a victory when Shiro kisses him once more, but he pulls away just as quickly, dashing any of Keith’s hopes of getting away without a scar.

He can already hear it now - all of his worries and insecurities he keeps locked close to his heart manifesting in this one conversation. _Sorry, it’s been fun. Sorry, this is it. Sorry, I found someone better._

It hasn’t even happened yet and he wants to scream. Keith tries to pull away, move out of this intoxicating proximity, but Shiro grasps his chin. He’s forced to look at him, _directly_ at him, and he feels painfully vulnerable.

“Go out with me.”

There’s a beat.

And another.

Finally, Keith manages a stuttered, “W-what?”

Shiro laughs in that easy way of his - the way that makes Keith feel light and safe and like he would do _anything_ to protect this man. He feels like an idiot, expecting the worst out of someone that has shown him _nothing_ but reliability.

“I really shouldn’t date a client,” Keith says, biting his lip as if he is _actually_ bothering to weigh the pros and cons of being with him.

Shiro raises an eyebrow, but shrugs, disentangling himself and shrugging. “Fine, I’ll try again Friday.”

Friday. Their last appointment. When the sleeve Keith’s put so much of his heart into will be completed. And when Shiro will no longer be considered Keith’s “client.”

Laughing, Keith jumps up, wrapping long legs around Shiro's waist. He’s unsurprised when Shiro catches him easily, lifting him from his thighs. They’re both smiling into the kiss, Keith cradling Shiro’s face in his hands.

“So… I take it that’s a yes?”

 _“Good god,_ Shiro, _yes.”_

* * *

 

“You good?” Shiro asks, a smile in his voice.

Keith rolls his eyes, resisting the urge to glare at the man but knowing Nyma would rip his ear off if he moved anymore during their session.

Keith settles for a sharp, “I think I’ve done this a few times, Takashi.” He would flip him off, but that verges on overkill and Keith has been trying to work on his self-control.

“You’d never know, based on how much you’re moving,” Nyma mutters under her breath, pointedly holding his head still.

Keith is _finally_ getting that tattoo behind his ear, and after much deliberation, he’d eventually settled on something he likes. There’s a catch, though, that six months ago Keith wouldn’t have anticipated…

“Really, I’d never expected _you_ of all people to get a couple tat,” she smiled, obviously amused by the turn of events but apathetic enough she isn’t authentically mocking him.

Shiro smiles, sheepish, but fights the urge to rub the back of his neck like he usually would. He didn’t want to risk hitting the new mark behind his left ear.

“I conned him into it,” Shiro fesses up, but the whole store knows that if Keith didn’t _actually_ want to go through with it, he wouldn’t be sitting there.

When teaching one of his classes, Shiro had glanced at a diagram of the moon phases and wasted no time, immediately texting his boyfriend. After some mild convincing, Keith agreed it _was_ a good idea. And it _would_ look pretty rad.

“At least we aren’t getting matching hearts,” Keith grins. Shiro snorts in agreement.

Nyma laughs at that, putting the final touches on the ink. The buzz switches off and finally, Keith can stretch his neck. It’s not a big tattoo, but it’s detailed, so it took longer than he would have anticipated.

“Well, there you go, sunshine,” she says as she stands, accepting the tip Shiro passes off with a smile. She grabs a handheld mirror off her counter, holding it out to him. “Wanna see it?”

Keith takes it, craning his neck to observe her handiwork. The first quarter moon fades expertly into his skin, creating craters and shading with just the black ink and white of his skin. Overall, it’s beautiful, and Keith doesn’t think he could have done better himself.

Shiro leans over next to him, turning his head so their tattoos are parallel to each other. Shiro has the third quarter, the shading reversed. They are the perfect compliment to each other, creating a full moon if someone were to place them over top the other.

Keith turns, kissing just beneath Shiro’s tattoo briefly, laughing at the look of surprise on his boyfriend’s face.

His t-shirt reveals the delicate sleeve covering his right arm, a masterpiece that looks like it could really be a biotic implant. It’s Keith’s proudest work, and came out better than anyone could have anticipated. It’s at the front of his portfolio now, and has earned him more than a few new customers, including a few of Shiro’s students.

“I think I’m going to have a problem,” Shiro confesses, “I already want another.”

Keith laughs, “Hey, this shit is addictive. Why do you think I have so many?”

Shiro’s eyes twinkle, a mischievous grin playing on his attractive features, “Maybe I’ll get another sleeve.”

_"Shiro."_

His responding laughter has Keith rolling his eyes, with nothing but exasperated affection. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
